


just brush it off, you got her feeling weak

by magicians_entrepot



Category: The Magnus Archives
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Nail Polish, Polyamory, also tim & martin relentlessly make fun of him, jon's uhhh. he's very easily embarrassed, short and sweet, wow jon! how come you get TWO boyfriends?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24065050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicians_entrepot/pseuds/magicians_entrepot
Summary: Martin & Tim convince Jon to take a break off work for the weekend and take him out on a small date. Set pre-S2.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 24
Kudos: 161





	1. pull me close, man!

**Author's Note:**

> uhh UHH HI! this's my first magnus fic, and i can't cope with season 3 so here's me playing into blissful ignorance and writing fluff. it helps if you listen to guillotine + being so normal by peach pit while reading.

When Tim and Martin first suggested Jon take the weekend off, they were met with predictable resistance. He made up some story about organizing the archives, saying his work was  _ very _ important and  _ very _ crucial to the Institute, all the way until Tim shut him up with a kiss and Martin simply sighed.

It’s not easy to convince Jonathan Sims to take a break. Not even when the stress from work has gotten him wound so tight he’s always on the verge of snapping; or when he’s drinking more coffee in a day than Tim has in two weeks; or when he starts to neglect personal hygiene and stubble starts to fleck his clean shaven face, and his clothes get baggier and baggier as he neglects his binder completely. Friday, the last possible day that Tim and Martin could speak to him about relaxing, is when he finally breaks.

“Fine! Fine. Whatever. I’ll do what you want, if that will stop the ceaseless pestering.” Jon’s arms were full of tapes at the time, and he would’ve thrown his arms up in frustration if it weren’t for the fact they were so fragile.

Martin and Tim had beamed at him, each in their own way - Tim’s smile was more cocky, and Martin’s was more genuinely pleased, and they had high fived as Jon huffed and walked away.

The two of them were now waiting at the doors, watching people file out as they stood there, basking in the cold winter air flooding through the entryway. Tim shivered and checked his watch. “You think he’s actually gonna come?”

“I mean, yeah, I’d hope so - I wouldn't think he’d just stand us up like that. Plus, he knows that we know he’s stressed. And that we won’t stop bugging him until he takes some time off.” Martin had shoved his hands deep in his pockets, feeling around the soft fur lining of the inside. He was just about to sigh when he saw him - Jon walking down the Institute stairs, wrapped in a slim-fitting black coat and a messenger bag slung round his shoulder. He was pulling on a pair of gloves, and he made his way over to the two other men.

“Sorry,” He began, “Got a bit.. preoccupied, filing things away and all.” Jon crossed his arms over his chest, flitting his eyes between the two of them. “So? Where are we going?”

Tim grinned, beckoning for them to step outside as he followed, walking closest to the street. “Anywhere you want. Chinese takeout, fancy steak dinner, a diner, hell, I’m pretty sure the McDonalds isn’t too far from here.” Martin perked up a bit at the sound of fast food.

“Well, I.. suppose McDonalds isn’t the  _ worst _ option, granted it’s easy on the wallet.” Jon mused.

“And I’m craving some fries. Just, any fries, really, but McDonalds’ fries take the cake.” Martin chirped, taking his right hand out of his pocket to slide it into Tim’s.

Tim only smiled, the grin from earlier fading into a small curve of the lips, and he lightly swung Martin’s hand in his as they waited on a stoplight. “Fast food it is, then!”

-+-

There weren’t many people in the restaurant, really. There were about three other parties - two of which were lone customers, clearly having just gotten off their shift, and the third was a small group of highschoolers, fooling about but still reasonably quiet. Jon, Martin, and Tim got their orders - three different burgers with an increasing amount of toppings, respectively, and two orders of large fries. They took a booth in the corner, Jon and Martin sitting together and Tim on the opposite side. Jon’s boyfriends dug into their food rather quick, but he waited a bit. He took off his gloves first, then unbuttoned his jacket, pushing himself out of the sleeves as Tim and Martin exchanged knowing looks. 

Tim wiped his mouth with a napkin before speaking. “Jon, it’s a bloody McDonalds, you don’t need to prepare to eat a two pound burger.”

“I simply don’t want to get my coat dirty,  _ Tim _ . This food is a messy affair.”

Martin cracked. He almost choked around his burger, the statement ‘ _ Oh my fucking god, a  _ messy affair _?’  _ written in clear lines on his coughing, laughing face.

Jon had the gall to look offended, the expression  _ very _ thinly veiling his concern. “What? It’s true! This coat was indelibly expensive, and I can’t get..  _ burger juices _ on something so-”

“Christ. Oh my God, Jon,” Tim just stared at him with an incredulous grin, Martin’s coughing providing a nice ambience. “You can’t be serious - you, oh my  _ God _ .” At that point he laughed, a bubbling, gentle laugh, which was still enough to make Jon’s brow furrow even more.

The coughing had died down then, Martin lightly wheezing as he set his food down. “Jon - Jon, you are.. I love you, but you’re  _ such _ a sore loser.”

Jon threw up his hands in an exasperated  _ ‘What?!’ _ expression, starting on another rant on how his precautions were justified, actually, and how he was  _ so sorry _ for just trying to be  _ careful _ , when the two others at the table suddenly erupted into another fit of laughter. His complaints were drowned out in the noise, and he simply folded his hands under his elbows as his face flushed and his boyfriends simply  _ laughed _ . 

Tim was wiping tears from his eyes by the time they slowed to a stop, Jon still pouting when the other two started to go back to their food, giddy smiles on their lips. “You know,” the head archivist started, “you two were way too loud. I should’ve-”

“Christ, just shut up and eat your burger already.” Tim chuckled, and Jon sent him a death glare as he did, indeed, pick up his burger and start to eat it. It was slightly colder than he would’ve liked.

-+-

They had finished and left through the glass door, and Jon popped a small mint to clear the taste of grease. He was swirling it around in his mouth, letting it dissolve, when Martin cleared his throat. 

“So, uh, there’s a little park just down the street from here. It’s real nice this time of year, and since there definitely won’t be any kids around, would you two wanna…?”

“What, go?” Tim broke in, “Sure. I’m sure Jon over here hasn’t seen a genuine playground in, what, forty years?” He grinned, ignoring Jon’s eyeroll as he twined their fingers together - Christ, Jon’s hand was cold even through the thin gloves he wore.

Martin led the way, Jon and Tim in tow, their hands loosely held together. The night was cold, and the sun had already set by the time they left the Institute, but the three of them were keeping warm. Despite Jon’s crabby attitude, he definitely seemed to be less anxious - the usual tension in his shoulders had relaxed, and he even smiled, just a bit, when their shoulders would knock together. He was never quite the one for public affection. Jon always reasoned it as  _ ‘needless’ _ and  _ ‘impolite to others’ _ , but they were navigating through side streets in a cold winter night, so not many people would be about to see them. His rants on courtesy were quelled in the still air.

They came across another crosswalk, a small bridge from their side of the road to the playground on the other end, and Martin jogged across before either of the others could say anything. Tim ended up tightening his grip and pulling Jon along with him, ignoring his complaints about approaching cars - “Tim! We’re gonna get run over!” - as they half-jogged, half-sprinted onto mulchy ground. Tim dug his heels into the loose dirt to stop himself, but Jon didn’t brace himself and knocked directly into Martin - suffice to say, their hands got snagged apart. 

Martin stumbled, his back slamming into the side of a plastic slide, and Jon lost his footing in a tangle of the former’s arms and slippery mulch. They fell abruptly, Martin’s back support barely doing a thing to help them as his boots skidded on wet dirt and they collapsed on the ground. Tim only grinned guiltily, not bothering to help the two, and tucked his hands into his pockets. Jon huffed.

“I’m, uh,” Jon slid back onto his knees, grabbing the cusp of the slide to boost himself up, “Christ - I’m sorry Martin, I wouldn’t have slammed into you if  _ someone _ didn’t almost get me  _ run over _ , and-”

“It’s fine! Jon, really, it’s, ah,” Martin stood up himself, wiping mulch from his trousers, “it’s all fine. Really,  _ you _ shouldn’t be the one apologizing.” His eyes flicked up to Tim, which got him a scoff in return.

“What!? Hey, hey, it’s not  _ my _ fault that Jon has awful balance. Seriously, you’d think that was staged.” His two boyfriends sent him matching glares, to which he simply smiled, “Ohh,  _ Martin! _ ” He started to mock in a staged accent, “Catch me, Martin! I don’t know how to feign affection! Help me, I’m  _ sooo _ off balance!” Tim pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, earning a stifled laugh from Martin and a  _ very _ betrayed glower from Jon.

"I  _ don't _ sound like that, and you know it."

Martin made a small, skeptical sound, to which Jon just sighed. He made his way past Tim, mulch still sticking to the seat of his jacket, and settled on one of the two swings available. He dropped his bag beside him with a small  _ plop _ , and lightly rocked himself in the slightly rusted thing. “Would you two spare me just five minutes of peace? Just a  _ moment _ where I’m not being persecuted for something.” Tim and Martin stifled their smiles.

Tim hopped onto the adjacent swing, standing on the seat with his head nearly touching the beam above them. “Mmm, so, what, you want us to be all lovey-dovey and soft towards you?” He locked eyes with Jon, just for a second, before his feet pushed against the seat and he was sent rocking forward. He noticed Martin was missing from his spot behind the slide and was making his way over to Jon.

“Well,” The archivist began, “I think I’d surely  _ deserve _ it. But it’s not a realistic hope, I know.” Jon jumped when Martin’s arms wrapped just below his ribs, the warm presence pretty quickly relaxing him again. He leaned back into the man’s arms, and Tim felt a small, familiar prickle in his heart. 

“I mean, Jon, it’s not..  _ awfully _ unrealistic, you’re just rarely ever soft towards  _ us _ .” Martin hummed, his chin resting atop Jon’s forehead and making it slightly awkward to speak. Tim nodded. “I’d never be Mr. Perfect, but yeah, Jon, what goes around comes around. You  _ can _ be vulnerable, you know.”

Jon winced at  _ ‘vulnerable’ _ , and raised a hand to hold onto Martin’s. He stopped talking at that point; the two others decided not to push it any more. 

Tim hopped down from his swing and pulled out his phone; Jon’s eyes were almost closed now, and he looked very small - and very cozy - wrapped in Martin’s arms. 

“Hm?” Jon flicked open his eyes and grimaced (he was never one for photos), but, wrapped up in his boyfriend’s arms, there was nothing he could do to resist.

“Cheese!” Tim chirped, and his phone made a quiet  _ ka-chink _ as he took their photo. Martin was smiling, albeit pretty sheepishly, and Jon’s face was vacant save for a judging pair of eyes. The orange glow from the streetlamps gave the picture an old, vintage look, like something directly from the archives - topical, he supposed. “Aww, Jon, you don’t like having your picture taken?” Tim grinned.

“ _ No _ , I don’t. I don’t see the appeal to having visual evidence of me, anyway.”

Martin made a small, doubtful noise. “It’s just.. nice! You don’t have to call photos  _ visual evidence _ , Jon, they’re just little snapshots of pleasant times like this.” Jon only grunted.

Tim went over to the two of them and turned his phone round - Jon predictably winced, and Martin only smiled. They looked.. well, cute, each in their own way. Tim wrapped his hand around the swing’s chain, his fingers overlapping with Jon’s, and he tucked his phone back into his pocket. “Jon, whatever you’re gonna say, I’m never deleting that photo. I can hardly get you  _ outside _ , let alone in my camera roll. Now make room.” Tim smacked Jon’s hand out of his lap, “Move the hand - I’m sitting here.”

“Wait - what? No, Tim, we’re gonna tip over, I-” Jon started and Tim ignored him, plopping down sideways in his lap. The chain provided enough of a backing for him. “Tip over? I doubt it,” He simply grinned, the smugness in his face emanating in rays. “Anyway, even if we  _ did _ fall, Martin would catch us. Right, Martin?” 

“Uh - I mean, I guess? I can tr-”

“Yeah! Yeah, see, Jon? We’re  _ fine _ .” Tim crooned, crossing his legs as Jon’s face flushed. Their hands were still overlapping, and he noticed Jon’s hand had gotten  _ much _ warmer.  _ God _ , this little nerd could be so cute. “Christ, Jon, c’mon - come over here. You need a kiss. Like, right now.” He took his hand away from the chain to cup the side of Jon’s face, and he had to do most of the lean-in to accommodate for Martin behind them. Their lips met and Jon was warm, incredibly warm, and Tim felt his face heat up amidst the cold winter air.


	2. safe haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they head back to jon's apartment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry this took so long! i doubled the length to make up for it a bit.

In the end, they _did_ fall off that swing. Martin had tried to resituate, pulled his hands away from Jon, and the sudden change caused him to fall straight backwards onto the dirt. Obviously, Tim came down with him, and they were sent sprawling in a haphazard heap - the only difference between them was Tim was laughing hysterically. He’d pressed kisses to all the spots mulch had gotten onto - Jon’s neck, his hands, his cheeks and forehead and the top of his head, until Jon had to physically push him off because he couldn’t breathe. Tim had claimed he’d “kissed it to make it better”, and Jon had groaned so loud the laugh Martin was containing exploded out of him like a bomb. He’d knelt down to their level then, and spent a couple minutes picking mulch from Jon’s hair with a hand resting on his boyfriend’s chest, still giggly, and it made him _very_ hard to get a kiss from when Tim tried to steal one from him.

They’d decided to head back to Jon’s place. It was closest, they were shivering, and neither Tim nor Martin wanted to call a cab for either of their apartments. Besides, they’d never been to Jon’s place before - it was a rare treat, they suspected. They were on the fourth floor of Jon’s apartment building, and the landing they were on faced the outside, with doors leading down to an elevator with a decent amount of space between each. Tim was tucked away within Martin’s puffy coat, wedged between his boyfriend himself and the zipped-up, fur-lined coat surrounding them both. Jon fumbled with his keys. His hands were cold and were rapidly going numb, and it was difficult picking out his apartment key amongst the various archive keys. He eventually got it - the door swung open after another minute or two. They shuffled in and shed their coats.

Jon’s flat was homey, and it was clear he’d spent a long time making the space his own. There was a little hallway leading out to the main space, and to the right of it was a small kitchen with a wraparound counter. On the opposite end of the counter were three small, potted cacti, one of which was flowering and all three of them had different colored pots - one pink, one green, and one blue. Jon’s grocery list was taped to the fridge, and he’d circled certain items in various colors of highlighter where he’d clearly needed them. Jon tossed his keys into a small, brown bowl on the counter, closest to the hallway.

The rest of the space opened out to a small mix of living room and dining room, with a coffee table, sofa, and comfy-looking armchair on the left side, and a small, wooden dining table with three simple chairs surrounding it on the right, about ten feet or so from the kitchen counter. On the coffee table there was a jumbled mess of wires - it was clear there had previously been a TV there - with two consoles placed on either end of the surface, an N64 and an SNES. Both consoles had two controllers attached and stacked on top, with little plastic boxes of games underneath the table. There was a bass guitar beside the armchair, black with shiny brown accents. The dining table seemed to have stacked D&D books on one end, and small sets of dice were grouped together on top - amidst the various cup stains on the table, it seemed Jon was pretty popular here. There was another hallway on the right hand wall, presumably leading to the bedroom and bathroom. Martin’s mouth had screwed up into a huge, dorky smile, and he was rooted beside the counter as he looked around.

Tim spoke first. “Where’s the TV?”

“Uh, it’s in my bedroom. I’d get home and be too tired to settle down on the couch before bed, so I just brought it over so I wouldn’t have to worry about falling asleep.” 

Martin piped up, “Could we play something? Anything - I don’t mind.”

Jon gave him a small, unreadable look, and eventually shrugged. “Sure, I.. don’t see why not. I’ll bring over the TV, and-”

Tim interjected. “No, hey, no, Martin and I got it. You just, I dunno, make us some tea or something? Switch up the roles a bit.” He gave them both a reassuring smile - he’d do anything to see the inside of Jon’s room, one way or another. Martin must’ve seen something in his gaze; he nodded too. “Yeah! Jon, I trust you have decent taste in tea, so.. we’ll grab the TV. Two is better than one, and, uh, I think you’d have more of a struggle with it than me or Tim.”

Jon looked a bit insulted, but he didn’t look like he minded switching tea for TV-moving, so he just gave them a slightly pointed look and turned round. “Fine. I’ll start the kettle.”

Tim and Martin shot each other winning grins.

It didn’t take them long to find Jon’s room - there was a bathroom door, a door to a sort of pantry storage, and at the end of the hall, the sole bedroom. They went inside.

It was a lot messier than either of them expected. While a decent amount of Jon’s clothes were tucked away in his laundry basket, they seemed to overflow out across his room. Shirts, sweaters, and various pairs of muted jeans were on the floor or halfway under furniture - Tim distantly heard Martin go “Hey, that’s my hoodie!” before getting onto the bed and reaching for the thing.

On the wall with the door they came through stood Jon’s double bed, with a night stand on the left side, two cozy flannel blankets, and three decently sized pillows. At the foot of the bed, about two feet away, stood a small wicker table with the thirty-inch TV propped upon it. On the right of the bed, only a few feet away, stood what looked to be his closet door. It was very tightly shut - Tim looked at Martin, and he raised an eyebrow back.

The rest of the room was decently unremarkable. On the opposite wall was a wooden dresser on the left, complete with framed photos and a small lamp, and a dark desk on the right with a monitor and an empty chip bag. The right wall had two heavy-laden bookshelves, filled with books of various genres, two yearbooks on one’s top shelf, and some personal mementos - little figurines, small birthday gifts from Martin and Tim alike, that sort of thing. It was sweet - Jon had even gone through the trouble of framing the birthday photo they took.

Martin cleared his throat. “So, Tim, are you done looking around, or am I just going to move this TV myself?” He had put on his hoodie by that point, sitting on the side of the bed, and Tim noticed just how cold Jon’s apartment was. He looked between his boyfriend, his second boyfriend’s TV, and his second boyfriend’s closet, and gave Martin a small grin. 

“Y’know what? I think I’m rather cold, actually. I think,” Tim said, making long strides to Jon’s closet, “I think that I’m going to need to steal a sweater. A big, cozy one.”

“Can’t you just- Tim, wait, can’t you just take one off the floor?”

“Oh, come _on_ , Martin. I’m not putting on Jon’s dirty laundry - I know we’re dating him, but my standards aren’t _that_ low. And aren’t you curious? Just a _little_?” He crooned, one of his big grins plastered to his face as he wrapped his hands around the closet doors’ handles.

“I..” Martin chewed on the corner of his lip, but his resolve was faltering. “Fine. But just _one_ sweater. That’s all you’re looking for, okay?” His words were noble, but Tim could tell he was just as achingly curious as he was. Tim turned the handles and opened up the closet.

At first, it looked like nothing special - hoodies, sweaters, button-ups and a few jackets were tucked away pretty neatly, all hung up on their own hooks. Jon’s shoes were lined up beneath them. A pair of snow boots, a pair of dress shoes, sneakers, slippers, and even a pair of flip-flops, all lined up in a neat little row. At that point, just when he was about to simply grab a sweater and leave, Martin abruptly grabbed Tim’s arm. His face had turned white, almost as white as the walls, and pointed to a corner of the closet - one of the corners that was piled high in discarded clothes. Tim was just about to laugh when he saw it, too. Partially hidden in the corner of that pile was a studded belt. Not one of those casual, relatively normal belts people get for everyday wear, but a genuine one - one with spikes and metal rings scored into the leather as belt holes. Tim reached into the closet and pulled it out - it was _heavy_.

“Oh my god.”

“Tim - Tim, hey, look,” Martin was tapping on his arm, steering his gaze over to another part of the closet. Behind the row of Jon’s shoes, partially shrouded in shadow, was a black leather boot. Martin got down on his hands and knees and grabbed it, dragging it over to himself. He sunk back on his heels. It was a chunky, solid black combat boot, complete with two inches of platform on the sole. The laces were purple - Tim knew enough about laces colors to know it meant gay power, or, gay _rights_ , or just.. something gay. It didn’t quite matter.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Martin.”

The thing looked old, like it hadn’t been worn in years, but they were still in shock. No matter how ancient this was, what mattered is that Jon still _wore_ it - and personalized it, no less. They locked eyes.

There was no way they were going to let Jon live this down.

As if by magic, the man of the hour, the newly-christened legend himself poked his head through the bedroom door. “Are you two going to need help? The tea is done, and-”  
  
He saw his two boyfriends on the other side of his bed, one holding his belt and the other holding his boot, and he visibly deflated. “Oh, god.”  
  


For a few moments, they stood at a standstill. None of them moved. Then Tim looked at Martin, and Martin looked at Tim, and they started at the same time. “So-”  
  
“Christ,” Jon groaned, “It was.. a long time ago. Really, I don’t know why I kept that stuff around. It’s nothing you need to worry about.” 

Tim quirked an eyebrow. “Well, you kept it around, and we’re _certainly_ not going to let up on it until you tell us what this all is. So spill it. We have time - it’s not like we’re leaving tonight.”

Jon looked a little surprised, but he was clearly fighting down a little smile. Martin simply sounded confused when he spoke up. “Wait, we’re not? I mean-” He grinned _very_ sheepishly, his cheeks coloring a faint pink. “I mean, no, we’re not. Not a chance.” Tim dropped the belt beside the closet door and crawled up and onto the bed, his knees supporting his weight as he held out his arms to Jon. “C’mon. Get over here, you big nerd.”

In the end, they found themselves in a little bit of a heap - Jon had just rolled his eyes and eventually found himself in Tim’s arms, then being wrapped up in them and rolled over to lay on his back. Martin had put the boot back where he found it, took off his hoodie and crawled in right beside him, effectively packing the shorter man between the two of them - a “Jon sandwich”, as Tim had said. Tim's arms were wrapped tight around him, and Martin had slid his arm behind and round Jon's shoulders, so while it was _very_ nice, he found it equally _very_ difficult to fish his phone out of his pants pocket. 

"Okay - _okay_ , your affections are nice, but- _ah_ , hey, Tim!" Jon smacked his boyfriend's face away from his neck, "You can't - _Martin_ ," the other man giggled and stopped his kisses along Jon's temple, slightly skewing his glasses, "You can't just drown me in them. I need to find these pictures, alright?" 

Tim and Martin both made slightly disappointed sounds of agreement. Jon swiped up and opened his phone, and spent a couple minutes just scrolling through his photo library before getting to a point where he could slow down. He clearly saw _something_ , because he made a very exasperated sigh after a little bit.

“This is going to need some, er, explanation. I just - this was purely in college, I had just gotten out of my grandmother’s house, and I was curious. I wanted to try something _new_ out.” Martin stifled a chuckle. “I.. well, I ended up trying this out with a new friend I made at the time, and we stayed like this for a while. We had a small group, even. We even.. hell, we even made some music. It wasn’t _good_ , but-”

Tim looked like he was going to explode, then. “You- _huh?_ You were in an _emo band_?”

Jon brought a hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t _emo_. I was just the bassist and.. backup vocalist to a, uh, metal band.” 

Martin, at that point, _did_ explode. He almost kicked Jon in his new, violent bout of laughter, and he had to bury his face in the pillow to quiet himself. Tim was grinning a full-tooth, megawatt grin, but he didn’t say a thing. Jon’s face was tinted a bright pink.

“Nice going, boss.”

“Shut _up_ , Tim. God, I- do you two even _want_ to hear this story?”

Martin was wheezing by the time he lifted his face from the pillow, his eyes bleary and a dumb smile on his face. “ _Yes_. Yes, more than anything.”

“Just- alright. Fine.” Jon pulled up his phone again, “These pictures were from when I was pretty much just starting my hormones, so I’m going to look.. different. Probably.” He opened one of the photos - it was definitely _him_ , but he did look drastically different. He was sitting on a cracked sidewalk, with baggy black pants tucked into those combat boots reaching almost halfway up his shins, and wearing a black tank emblazoned with some horror movie poster on the front. He had another shirt underneath, a fishnet top with long sleeves reaching down to his wrists - which were also bedazzled with various black bracelets - and going up a bit along his neck, which held a spiked choker. Jon’s face, while much softer and lacking his scratchy facial hair, still had that trademark annoyed expression - black-painted lips tugged down into a scowl, and his hand (with the nails also painted black) propping up his chin. His hair, his boyfriends noticed, was choppily cut into a mullet - Martin made a small noise like he was deflating.

“I _know_ , I know, I just- I look horrible, and I _do_ regret it now, but-”

“No, uh,” Martin cleared his throat, “No. No you don’t.” 

“You look.. _surprisingly_ good in a mullet, actually.” Tim sat up a bit, reaching out to take Jon’s phone - he let him. He swiped to another photo, this time with him and two other people in a small, run-down kitchen. He had an arm around the shoulders of someone Tim didn’t recognize, and there was a third person washing a pot to the left of them. The leftmost person seemed more grunge than punk, but still had heavy tattoos along their arms and on the back of their neck under a shaved head. Tim quirked an eyebrow. “Who’s this on the right?”

“Ah - uh, Georgie. My friend - my _ex_. This was.. Christ, this was before she transitioned. We broke up after she did, I’m not very into women, but we’re still close. And, that guy on the left is Matt - we fell out of touch when they graduated.”

Martin nodded, and Tim kept going through the photos - more photos of him and Georgie, miscellaneous photos of Jon’s band members, until he landed on one specific photo. It was taken from a front row seat in a grungy, run-down pub, and it was craned up to take a shot of the band playing. Matt looked to be the lead singer, with a mic and a black guitar anchored to their shoulder with a matching black strap, and Jon was to the right of them - his mullet had grown shaggier, and patchy, coarse stubble was starting to poke out on his face. He had a standing mic in front of him, and he was holding the same bass guitar he had in his flat. There was a drummer in the background, a slim, mid-20s looking woman with a partially shaved head, and they all looked to be mid-performance. 

“Christ, Jon, you actually looked _cool_. And I, for one, would’ve thought that was impossible.” Tim grinned, lightly elbowing his boyfriend - he just rolled his eyes. 

He flipped through another few photos - mirror selfies (clearly progress shots spanned over a few months), group photos that started to dwindle in size the further he went, and pictures of Jon with clothes that began to slowly get more tame. Eventually, he’d shaved the mullet clean off - Martin made a small, disappointed sound once he saw that photo - and the pictures gradually became more recent. There weren’t any band photos anymore, just pictures of him and a few disparate friends here and there. 

Tim flopped back onto the bed and turned onto his side, handing Jon’s phone back to him. Martin piped up from the other side of his boyfriend, his face partially buried in the crook of his neck. “Y’know, you actually pulled the punk look off pretty well. And a mullet - I mean, _wow_ , I did _not_ expect-”

“God - I get it, Martin. We all make bad choices.” Jon groaned, but he was smiling. His hand was absently toying with the curls in Martin’s hair, twirling them around in his fingers. 

Tim propped himself up on an elbow. “Do you still have your old nail polish stuff? I’ve never seen _you_ use any of it, and I-”

Jon turned his head to him, “What, you wanna try on my old makeup? Do you even know how to put it on?”

“I mean- well, _no_ , but that’s not an issue, is it? You looked like you applied it fine, so..” Tim wiggled his fingers, the insinuation clear in his grin. Jon chuckled. “Fine. Martin, I’m sorry, but I have to get up-” Tim could hear a whine of protest, and there was some light resistance as Jon pulled away, “-it’ll only be for a moment, I promise.”

Jon left the room, and Tim swung his legs over the side of the bed. He got up, peeling off his ankle-length socks, and shuffled back to the still-open closet. Martin lazily reached for him. “What’re you doing, Tim?”

“Finding something more comfortable. I’m _not_ sleeping in work clothes.” He loosened the buttons along his shirt, letting the white button-up hang loose as he rifled through the shirts and sweaters in Jon’s closet. Tim came across not one, but _two_ of his prized sweaters in there, and he tossed one at Martin (to get it out of the way), and put the other one on in place of his shirt. “Christ - he’s like a little weasel. I can’t imagine how much of _your_ shit he’s stolen.”

“I really don’t mind, Tim. I bet he’d look cute in our stuff.”

He snorted. “Cute?” Tim threw his shirt onto the desk chair and began to loosen his belt, “Actually -” He cast a glance back at Martin, one of his trademark smiles on his face, “You know what, I think you’re _right._ Imagine that. Jon being _cute_.” He kicked off his jeans and made his way back to bed, wiggling his legs under the covers.

“I mean, he’s smaller than both of us. A _lot_ smaller than me, at least, and he had my hoodie in his _bed_. I think he has the potential.” Martin, with a bit more pause than Tim, pushed himself out of his slacks and kicked them off the side of the bed. He kept his socks on, though, and Tim made a face.

“You’re _not_ touching my legs with those. Don’t tell me you sleep with them on.”

“I have Reynaud’s! It’s not _my_ fault, and besides, it’s really not that bad. Jon never minded.”

Tim put a hand to his forehead, “Well, _Jon_ is a little lovesick fool. Do you see how he looks at you? You could wear a bloody hot-dog costume to bed and he’d still spoon.”

“I-” Martin flushed. “Shut up! What about how he looks at _you_? He lets you kiss him at work!”

“I don’t ask to kiss, that’s the difference.”

“Well,-”

Jon opened the bedroom door then. He was carrying a small black leather bag, rectangular with two handles separated by a zipper in one hand, and a clipped-shut large bag of chips and the handle to a dusty-looking GameCube in the other. He glanced between the two of them, and they stared back at him, before he dropped the stuff on the bed. 

“I, uh - I need to grab my GameCube stuff.”

His boyfriends gave him silent signs of agreement.

Jon took a pair of flannel pajama pants from the dresser - he clearly wanted to change alone, and they let him - and left. After a couple more minutes he returned, new pants and a loose, faded band tee on. He was holding a plastic baggie filled with cables and a GameCube controller inside, and he went to work setting it up on the TV as Tim and Martin went to work on the chips.

He powered it on - it seemed the one disc he had in it was Animal Crossing - and crawled back to the bed, kneeled in front of the lone makeup bag, unzipped it, and dumped the contents out on the bed. It was mostly nail polish, though there were also two tubes of black lipstick, a mini nail-drier (‘Matt’ was written on the side), a small palette of eyeshadow, and a couple brushes. Jon gathered up all the nail polish and put it in its own little pile. “Alright, let’s see; black, red, dark green, a sort of.. purple color, I believe, and a pacific blue.” He looked up at Tim, “Which do you want?”

Tim picked up the black bottle, halfway used. “This one.” 

Jon nodded. “Martin, do you want one?”

“Huh?” Martin looked up from his handful of chips, “No, I think I’m good. Later, though. Definitely later.” Jon sweeped the rest of the stuff back into the bag save for the mini drier, and plopped it onto the floor.

It took them a bit to get comfortably resituated - by the end, Jon was sitting cross-legged with his back supported by pillows, Tim’s shoulders and head were resting in his lap, and Martin was pressed against Jon, GameCube controller in hand. Tim was buried up to his shoulders in blankets, and Martin’s lap was covered completely, his knees up to his chest. Jon had taken Tim’s right hand in his own, the bottle brush in the other hand and the bottle itself being held by Tim’s left, and Martin had opened up Jon’s old Animal Crossing save. They were comfortable, and the atmosphere readily calmed as the game’s music started to seep into the space.

Jon’s movements were slow and almost therapeutic, and while his hands still shook, they were precise enough to evenly coat Tim’s nails. They caught each other's eyes a few times, and every time Tim grinned - though, each passing instance that smile seemed to get sleepier and sleepier. Martin ended up resting his head on Jon’s shoulder, muttering small criticisms here and there about his town - “Jon, you had _such_ good villagers and you just let them move out??”, or “Jon, this place is a _mess_ ,” and other small, jokey criticisms like that. The TV ended up being their one source of light as the city lights died down, and Martin’s yawns began to get more frequent. Eventually, as Jon finished up Tim’s nails and put one hand after the other into the nail-drier, Martin gave up on trying to pick all of Jon’s weeds. He left a message on the bulletin board, and while Tim didn’t get to see it, it made Jon laugh - a real, honest laugh. 

Tim’s nails looked awfully nice, he thought. He grinned again when he saw them, and pulled Jon’s glasses off his face to reach up and kiss him. He showed them off to Martin, too, and the other man smiled in response. In the end, both of them got to kiss Jon - Martin’s made him flush a little more, but that was fine. All that mattered right now was the moment, really.

Martin took off his own glasses, tucked them beside the pillow, and turned off the TV. As the room darkened, Tim rolled over to allow Jon his space, Martin sunk down onto his back, and eventually they ended in a warm, comfortable position. Tim’s head was rested against Jon’s chest, and he felt slender fingers run through his hair while Martin closed in on the other side. Their hands ended up overlapping, and he heard a little laugh as Tim twined his fingers with Martin’s. In the cold apartment, they had formed a small haven between the three of them - one far more tender than Tim was used to, but certainly welcome.

Eventually, he felt Jon’s breath even out and Martin begin to snore, just a bit, and he let the moment slip away from him. The warm, encompassing darkness was welcome, and he closed his eyes to greet it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... jon's punk phase, huh
> 
> (also YES, georgie is trans & jon is a trans gay man. love wins!)

**Author's Note:**

> i have lots more ideas for this fic, but wanted to cut it off at ~2K to see the reception and test if i should keep writing. if no one really likes this, i'll stop it here, but if i get a decent amount of positivity i'll write the remaining chapters! thank you for reading! 
> 
> i'm @ASTR0PANTS on twitter!


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